Branches pressed into my back and arms, sharp with rough bark and the cold night. My legs were cramped from clinging to the tree, and my arms trembled, more from exhaustion than fear by now.
My thoughts circled endlessly: What would happen if I fell? Why had I left? Would anyone come for me—or would I simply vanish into the night, just another foolish princess who'd overestimated her courage?
A sudden wind swept through the trees, whipping my hair across my face and scattering leaves to the ground.
I peered through a gap in the branches, breath held tight. The bear paused in its pacing. Its nose lifted, nostrils flaring. I felt the change in the air: a new scent, something foreign, acrid and sharp, like metal and smoke.
That was when I noticed the color on the forest floor—not just the dim silver of moonlight, but the flicker of crimson, a stain of light like a wound opening in the dark.
The bear reared up, bellowing, its massive head snapping left, then right. Red flames bloomed from the earth, curling upwards in delicate threads, beautiful and terrifying.
The bear let out another roar, but there was fear in the sound now. The flames didn't burn the underbrush or the bark.
They danced in intricate patterns, weaving through the air like living things, quick and intelligent. I pressed myself further into the fork of the tree, watching in mute amazement as the bear staggered back, a halo of red fire reflected in its eyes.
The flames coiled, then shot forward—wrapping around the beast's hind legs. The bear stumbled, yowled, and with a final lurch, fled into the darkness, trailing smoke and a strange, metallic tang.
I sagged against the branch, shaking. Was it magic? Had I done it by accident?
No, the magic that still tingled faintly in my veins was white, pure and gentle as a sunrise. This was something older, fiercer, more wild.
A figure stepped out of the shadows. At first, I thought it was a grown man, someone summoned by my parents.
But as the figure moved closer to the light, I realized it was a child, cloaked and hooded, barely as tall as Seraphina when she was ten.
The flames guttered out as the stranger passed, leaving only the hush of wind and the last trembling echoes of the bear's retreat.
I tried to speak, but my throat was raw, my voice thin. "Who are you?"
The figure didn't answer. With a fluid, almost inhuman grace, the stranger placed a boot on the lowest branch of my tree and began to climb.
Leaves rattled, branches bowed, and then, with a single effortless swing, the cloak-draped stranger landed beside me.
I recoiled, pressing myself against the trunk. The stranger's face was hidden by the hood, but I caught a glimpse of a narrow chin, a mouth set in a determined line.
"Don't," I stammered, clinging to my branch. "I'll come down myself."
A hand emerged from the cloak—pale, slender, with oddly sharp nails. The hand grasped my wrist. I twisted away, but the grip was firm, almost gentle.
"I'm not going back," I managed, summoning the dregs of my dignity.
The stranger said nothing. With a strength that belied their slight frame, they lifted me bodily from the branch.
I kicked, I flailed, I even tried to bite, but it made no difference. I was cradled in the crook of a slender arm, held as easily as a sack of flour.
"Put me down!" I shouted, my voice rising to a shrill pitch. "You can't just—"
The stranger descended the tree as quickly as they had climbed, moving with an animal grace that made my skin prickle.
At the base, they set me on my feet—but kept a hand clamped firmly around my wrist. I yanked, tried to twist away, but the grip only tightened.
"I'm not a prisoner!" I spat, glaring up into the shadowed face beneath the hood. "You have no right—"
At last, the figure spoke—a girl's voice, quiet and husky, threaded through with an odd lilt. "You'd rather stay for the next bear?"
I faltered. "I could have managed."
She laughed—short, low, derisive. "Of course. You're doing wonderfully."
"Let me go," I said, quieter now.
"No."
With that, she half-dragged, half-guided me out of the clearing, back the way I'd come. I dug my heels into the leaf-strewn earth.
I tried every trick I'd ever learned to slip from a captor's grip. But she was patient, inexorable, and far stronger than she looked. I cursed her under my breath, alternating between desperate pleas and childish threats.
"I'm going to tell my father," I warned. "You'll regret this."
She snorted. "Go ahead. Perhaps next time he'll keep his little star safe."
That stung. I bit my lip, seething with fury and humiliation.
Every so often, I'd spot a gap in the trees a break in her attention and try to wriggle free, but she anticipated each attempt, steering me back onto the path with implacable patience.
The journey back to the edge of the town took longer than my escape, mostly because I fought her every step.
Once or twice, she simply slung me over her shoulder like a wayward bundle of laundry, ignoring my shrieks and fists pounding her back.
She never spoke except to urge me onward. Her cloak smelled faintly of smoke and earth.
At the edge of the village, dawn tinged the horizon with pink. The streets were empty, the world washed clean by dew. My anger drained away, replaced by shame and exhaustion.
We reached the palace gates just as the sun broke the line of rooftops. The guards spotted us instantly, raising their halberds, and then recognizing me shouting for the royal family.
I jerked away from the girl, trying to muster some dignity, but I stumbled and nearly fell. She steadied me, fingers warm on my elbow.
The great doors swung open, and my parents emerged. My mother ran to me first, gathering me into her arms.
I felt her tremble as she pressed her face into my hair. My father followed, his face gray with worry.
"Oh, Isolde, my darling—" my mother whispered, tears streaking her cheeks.
"I'm sorry," I muttered, unable to meet her gaze.
My father knelt, cupping my face in his hands. "Never do that again. Never." His voice cracked on the last word.
Behind us, the guards parted. The cloaked stranger lingered on the threshold, silent, impassive.
My father straightened, turned, and approached her. He drew a heavy pouch from his belt and pressed it into her hand.
"Thank you. For bringing our daughter home." His voice was thick with emotion. "If there is anything else we can do—"
My mother added, "You saved her life. You have our deepest gratitude."
The girl weighed the pouch in her palm, then slipped it into her cloak. She said nothing. My father hesitated, then asked, "Who are you, child? To whom do we owe this debt?"
At that, the girl lifted both hands to her hood. For a moment, she hesitated, then pushed it back.
Her hair tumbled out thick, wavy, the color of old blood and new snow, red streaked with pure white.
Her skin was pale, almost translucent in the new light, and when she smiled, I saw the gleam of fangs small but unmistakable. Her eyes, oddly shaped, flashed a deep copper.
She met my father's gaze evenly. "My name is Lyra," she said.